Last Defense
by wingedStarsong
Summary: In the aftermath of Garfle Warfle Snick, Lance contemplates. TW: SUICIDE, mentions of self-harm, depression, implied child abuse, internalized homophobia


He wakes up from the stupid game show with everyone else and _God_ he's never felt this low before. Or at least, not in a long time.

The others are laughing and relating the story of their encounter with Bob— yes, he _can_ remember names, thank you, he just so _happens_ to get stressed when his fucking life is at stake— to Coran and Shiro, who listen and react with astonishment. Lance is silent, and no one thinks to include him in the conversation. _Typical_ , he thinks, but there is no fire behind it. He's just— god, why has he tried so hard for so long? What was the point?

"Haha— well, Lance was no help! You should have seen him— he couldn't get a single question right!" Pidge's voice crackles over the coms, followed by laughter. Everyone is laughing at him.

Hunk is laughing at him.

He says, "C'mon, Lance, you have to admit it's funny. A _chicken_? I mean, c'mon! Where did you get that from?"

Lance's mouth is dry. _I got a few right,_ he thinks, but words seem impossible right now, so he doesn't say it out loud. They're expecting something from him, though.

"Hah. Yeah," he croaks. _Really funny._

* * *

The last time was back in the Garrison.

It was his first year, the first time he had ever been so far from home for so long, and Iverson was so cruel, and it took him right back to when he was young and his father would stand in front of him with that _look_ on his face and his fists clenched and then— and then—

He hadn't known how to deal with it as a kid. At the Garrison it was different, but he still couldn't deal with it. He laughed and joked and make a nuisance of himself, so that at least he was stepping into his assigned role, at least people got what they expected; he hated it, _loathed_ how he acted, but he couldn't stop himself. Really, Hunk was the only thing keeping him off the ledge, in those days. Sometimes literally.

It had been a hard night.

His dad had tried to call, to 'catch up', and Iverson had called him _worthless_ and _a waste of space_ in front of the whole school, and his family could barely afford to send him here, why was he even _here,_ he didn't deserve to be _here_ , surrounded by geniuses and prodigies when he was _nothing—_

He owed everything to Hunk. That day, just in that moment, he felt like maybe someone cared. Like maybe his life meant something. He clung, desperately, to that feeling.

Of course, there were... _other_ things he hadn't known how to deal with. Keith, stupidly perfect Keith, who ignored Lance's every attempt to befriend him, and was dangled above his head _constantly_ — by Iverson, by the other students; hell, even by Hunk, who took the imagined rivalry to heart and goaded Lance on with " _c'mon, you'll never beat Keith like that!"_ and " _you wanna be a fighter pilot, don't you? Like Keith?"_

Lance knew, on a subconscious level, what his real feelings towards Keith were. But he wasn't allowed to— he _couldn't_ — feel that way. He was straight. He had to be straight. If he wasn't straight, he would never be able to go back home. His life would end, right there. So if he buried those feelings deep down, and slathered them over with a facade of self confidence and flirtatiousness and _rivalry_ — well, then, it would be like they were never there at all. Right?

* * *

Now, though, it's worse. Everything is worse.

It seems as though not even Hunk cares about him anymore. What, did he get tired of him? Was he just too annoying to put up with anymore? Lance wouldn't blame him. He knows he's bad. He can tell when the team is getting sick of him, he just can't stop himself.

The others, he can deal with. Sure, they're his teammates, but deep down he knows he deserves it. Every withering glare from Allura, every cruel joke Pidge shoots at him, even every disapproving look from Shiro, his idol— he has learned to take all these and absorb them and bottle them away.

It's just _Hunk_ — the one he had thought would always be on his side. Every joke, or glare, or " _c'mon Lance, just be quiet"_ pierces straight through him and shatters all his careful defenses and lets out everything he has bottled up. He painfully recalls Hunk and Pidge laughing at him when he tried to talk to them seriously about Allura, and, before that, all the times the two of them fucked off by themselves with a " _sorry, Lance, but we're going to be doing science stuff, it'll be too complicated for you"_ as a was of keeping him as far away from them as possible. His nails dig into the unprotected part of his thigh involuntarily, and he can feel a few of the fresher cuts open up. Hunk doesn't know about that— it's a new development, something Lance started doing a few months into their time on the castle ship. Hunk stopped asking about his mental health, so he stopped caring.

Lance wonders when Hunk stopped caring. He wonders how long he has been clinging to a dead friendship. He knows if he stops, if he acknowledges it, there will be nothing holding him back anymore.

And _Keith_ — God, he had poured his heart out to the whole team, and to that stupid host, and Keith just…

Keith hated him. All those years of pining, all those months where he thought they might actually be getting somewhere, and Keith just _hated_ him. Hated him so much that he wouldn't even have cared if Lance died.

Lance puts his head in his hands, fingers digging into his hair and pulling. He notes, vaguely, that it's actually long enough to pull now. He notes that he can't really find the energy to care. Red, as always, is silent. Blue would have sent vague, warm thoughts drifting through his head at a time like this, but Blue isn't his anymore. Red isn't really, either.

Lance wonders how long it would take the rest of the team to notice if he disappeared. He wondered if they would even care.

"Of course they wouldn't," he groans quietly, and, against his will, a few tears spring from the corners of his eyes. They have made it abundantly clear that they don't care; there's no point in even questioning it. They probably think he didn't notice them miming _kill_ after he got Rolo's name wrong. Well, he did; and he also couldn't help but notice that no one seemed particularly concerned when his life was in danger not once, but twice. _Actions speak louder than words,_ he thinks.

Lance hates the fact that his self-deprecating thoughts, once products of self-hatred, are now based in the simple facts of his life. There's no point in shooing them away anymore, because he would just be deluding himself.

Shiro's voice in his ear startles him briefly out of his trance, and he shoots up in his chair.

"Paladins, there's a habitable planet close by. Let's stop off there for the night and try to get some rest."

"Copy that, Shiro," Pidge chirps, and the voices of the other paladins follow suit. After a few awkward moments, Shiro says "Lance? You copy?"

Lance breathes in and out, to try and banish the shakiness from his voice. "I copy. Sorry, I was just… thinking about all the babes we might meet on this planet."

It's a weak line and he knows it. He can't even be bothered to put his normal enthusiasm in his voice. But the others buy it anyway. Allura groans, and Pidge shoots back, "Is it even possible for you to think about anything else? Or is your brain stuck in _Babeland_ 24/7?"

Lance hears Hunk give a quiet chuckle, and his heart drops even further. Maybe he can find a quiet area far from whatever camp they set up where he end things once and for all, so no one will have to even think about him anymore. He wouldn't want to take the bayard, because then people would have to go looking for his body; maybe he can find a cliff, or a lake, and let the laws of nature do the work.

The thoughts don't scare him like they used to, back when he was convinced that he was getting better. He would shoo them away, telling himself he wasn't allowed to feel that way, not anymore, not when at least one person cared enough to stop him. There's not really a point anymore, he thinks.

He doesn't get out of his lion when they land. Through the windshield, he can see that the planet they're on is dark and heavily forested. They're in a clearing big enough to hold their lions, and in the center, the others have started building a fire and dragging logs over to serve as benches. They eventually all sit in a circle and start cooking some canned rations over the fire. Everyone chats amiably; Keith throws his head back in laughter, once, and Lance's breath catches at the sight of it. He then pinches himself, hard, because he is _not allowed_ to think like that.

"Red, black out the windshield, please." He doesn't want to look at Keith being happy without him. He doesn't want to watch his team, his friends, be happy without him. Red, surprisingly, complies right away, and the cockpit is dark for a moment before a set of emergency lights turns on and wraps Lance in a red glow.

He curls up in his chair and takes his helmet completely off, tossing it carelessly into the back of the cockpit. Now, no one will be able to reach him, unless they pry Red's mouth open with their bare hands. Not like anyone would care enough to try.

"Thanks, Red." Red doesn't reply. Lance wonders if Keith still hears her voice in his head from time to time, since _someone_ must be able to. That would be so typical— Keith gets two lions, and Lance gets zero.

Lance tries to wipe the tears from his eyes, but suddenly a sob bubbles up in his chest, and another, and then he is really crying, an terrible, primal wail that echoes back into his own ears in the small metallic chamber. The violent sobs hurt his chest, and it feels more real than he's ever felt before. It grounds him.

"This is it, then," he says aloud. The words are watery and choked, and he can barely understand himself, but he understands the meaning. He imagines that Red can, too.

There is no point in leaving for the woods, now. No one will bother to look for him in here for a while. Even if he wanted to, he knows he wouldn't have the energy to drag himself that far. There is a burning urgency, which intensifies with each convulsion of his chest— he has to _do it_ , right now. He can't fail this time. There is no one stopping him.

His bayard is an ugly shade of purple in the red light, and his blaster springs forth the minute his fingers touch the handle, as if it can sense his intentions. It feels comfortable in his grip. He is used to this part.

It occurs to him that he should leave a note. It's what people usually do. He wrote one last time, but no one saw it, and once he got out of the hospital he burned it so no one ever would.

This time, he codes it into Red's logs, so it's a little more permanent.

He knows he won't be able to speak, not in his current state, so he puts the blaster down for a second and shakily writes out _im sorry you had to see this, but i know youll get over it pretty quickly. haha out with a bang, right? oh that lance, gettin em' with the jokes right up til the end. sorry. i know i was always annoying, but now you dont have to deal with it. keith you can have red back. Or maybe romelle can pilot her, i dont know. anybody would do a better job than me. tell my family im sorry. give mama my ashes. - lance_

The thought of his family makes him cry harder, until his vision is so blurry that he can hardly see the blaster on the dashboard in front of him. He stumbles towards it and reaches out with unsteady hands, his trigger finger finding its way back to its usual perch. _This is the easy part,_ he thinks.

He lifts the blaster until the muzzle is fitted snugly under his chin. When he gulps, the cool metal brushes against his bare skin. _This is the easy part._

He sends one last prayer up to God— _watch over my family_ ( and as an afterthought, _and Voltron)—_ and pulls the trigger.

A/N: Am I projecting? Perhaps. Did S7 E4 set my blood boiling because of how Lance was treated? Perhaps. Did I decide to treat him worse as payback? Perh a


End file.
